Operation Little Vittles
by Taxie
Summary: 1948-1949: the Berlin Airlift. America's pilot meets Germany's mechanic, and the basis for German/American relations starts to rebuild itself with the dropping of candy bombs. Dom!Germany, Sub!America. Copious historical notes at the end. Companion fic/sequel to "This Stupid War," but you don't have to read that one to get this one.


_August 15, 1948_

America's hands were literally shaking on the goddamn controls, and sweat crawled down the back of his neck like ants. Christ, he couldn't remember the last time a flight had made him so nervous; not even during the war.

 _Of course, that could be because I'm just fucking forgetful_ , America admitted to himself, relaxing as he guided the C-54 cargo aircraft he was currently piloting into Tempelhof. He peered down in time to smile at the group of Berliners standing outside of the gates to the base, waving at the never-ending stream of planes going up and down, up and down, as regular as somebody breathing.

These planes were, quite literally, West Berlin's breath at the moment. With the Soviet blockade surrounding the city, the only way fuel and food would be able to pass through was by air. Without it, the Western section of the city would literally starve itself into Soviet hands.

 _Fuck Ivan_ , America thought heatedly as he pulled the controls to guide the Douglass C-54 Skymaster into a smooth landing. While many pilots thought that landing was the hardest part, the operation of warbirds had been so ingrained into America's being and body that he could probably do this part in his sleep. (Sometimes, he basically had.) The bottles of milk in the back of his plane rattled gently upon the wheels touching the tarmac, but not a one would break.

America sighed and rubbed the side of his head with his hand, willing the ringing in his ears to stop. While the Soviet fuckers weren't allowed to shoot down the cargo planes - such an action would almost certainly start a WWIII, which even Ivan wasn't batshit enough to want - that didn't mean the Soviets didn't take pleasure in fucking with the British and American aircraft that brought supplies.

Today had been particularly harrowing. After having been buzzed by no less than three Yaks at a distance of a scant 20 feet, America had been good and fed up. He'd turned his Skymaster around in a wide berth, and started flying straight at one of the Yaks, engaging its pilot in a deadly game of chicken.

Fortunately, the Yak had chickened out first; otherwise there would have been an explosion of aircraft carnage and milk over Soviet-occupied Germany, which probably would have started a war.

In retrospect, America thought, that was a damn dumb game of chicken to play, but he was already tired of these Soviet fuckers and had a feeling that he would be dealing with them for a long-ass time.

 _If it's not the Germans, it's the Russians_ , America thought, steering his plane into one of the hangars. _If it's not the Japanese, it's the Chinese. Fuck my life._

Also, if it wasn't playing games in the air with the Soviets, it was the fact that one of his engines had burnt itself out during the unexpected death-dance. Fortunately, the Skymaster had four engines and the loss of one wasn't the end of the world, but it would definitely have to be repaired before he went out again.

Not that America minded the break. It would no doubt take at least a couple of hours to get the warbird back up and running once more; America wanted some coffee.

After the Skymaster was parked, America stood up shakily and exited the aircraft to the sound of the cargo bay being opened and men entering to start removing the milk.

Half-dead with exhaustion and adrenaline, America didn't realize what the men were saying until he was halfway out of the cockpit. _Oh, you can carry more than one, you lazy son of a bitch_ , one of the men was saying to the other. In German.

America's head jerked up in surprise and he looked over toward the men, who weren't appearing to pay him any heed; they were simply unloading the milk as fast as they could… which was actually pretty damn fast and efficient. They were already almost a fourth of the way through the shipment before America managed to stop staring and leave the cockpit.

This was somewhat unusual. One of the main problems with the airlift had been lack of manpower to help unload and reload the planes. In the first days of the lift, the pilots had to help, which left the pilots exhausted and barely able to control their planes.

America supposed that, of course, the obvious way to fix the problem would be to involve the native population, but he had figured that the Major General wouldn't want Germans so involved at the airbase.

Huh. Well, just as Nazi Germany had forced a shotgun wedding between the US and the USSR, now the USSR was forcing another one between West Berliners and the American armed forces.

"Oh, how the world changes," America remarked, shaking his head.

"That it does," a heavily-accented voice replied, startling America into smacking his head against the underbelly of the aircraft.

"Fuck, ow!" America cursed, rubbing his head and looking down at, well, he supposed that this would be West Germany, now, technically. But fuck that. Germany was Germany and Ivan was an asshole.

America hadn't seen Germany since the end of WWII. He _definitely_ looked better than he had back at the end of 1945 - America didn't think he'd ever forget Germany's beaten and burned torso, gaunt cheeks, and protruding ribs. Currently, Germany was dressed in an oil-stained one-piece coverall and looked a little bit better-fed, at least, if not still a bit too thin. He raised an eyebrow at America's swearing with his arms crossed in front of him, a wrench dangling from his right hand.

"What are _you_ doing here?" America asked, once he had rubbed most of the pain out of his head. "I'm surprised they let you on the base."

Germany hummed, inclining his head. "Well, there was a shortage of plane mechanics," he explained with a shrug. "Your Major General Tunner was looking for mechanics." Here, his lip ticked up slightly. "We Germans are very good mechanics, you see. Also, I speak English, which is helpful since most Germans do not."

America looked at him blankly. "You're fixing American planes," he repeated, feeling a little over his head.

Germany nodded. "Yes. And British ones, too." His eyes flicked over to America's Skymaster. "This is a Douglas C-54 Skymaster… specifically a C-54M as it's been changed to help carry things into Berlin. It has four 1,450 horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-2000-2SD-13G Twin Wasp radial piston engines, it can go 280 miles per hour at 14,000 feet, it has a range of 2,500 miles when not carrying milk, it-"

"Okay, okay, stop, that's a little bit unnerving," America interrupted him, shaking his head. "You sound like an instruction manual."

"Instruction manuals are very useful," Germany replied, apparently with no hint of humor about him because he was Germany. "Also, your left inside engine has died and needs to be fixed; I could hear it when you came in. I am going to fix it to you." His ice-blue eyes darted to the side. " _For_ you," he corrected himself.

…America shook his head. "I have to admit I'm a little bit concerned about _you_ fixing _my_ plane," he responded dryly. "Considering that 5 years ago you would have pumped me full of lead given half a chance."

That gained America a deadpan look. "Yes, of course. Because what I really want to do is sabotage your plane so you stop bringing me food and the Soviet Union comes and gets me. Yes. This would be a very good plan, if I were an idiot."

Well, America couldn't argue with that. He looked over: the German unloading crew had almost finished with the plane. If nothing else, they were efficient.

Of fucking course they were efficient. Germany's middle _name_ was probably Efficient.

"The world is a strange place," America remarked, instead of addressing it directly.

"Yes," Germany said, his eyes already focused on the burnt-out engine now that the men were almost done with the milk. "Go to the briefing room. They tell me there is real coffee there. You will have to let me know if it is true."

Right. Well, it didn't particularly surprise America that even though they'd let the Germans onto the airbase, they wouldn't be sharing extra rations. America nodded, turning and walking out of the hangar.

It turned out that there _was_ indeed coffee inside of the briefing room; America enjoyed a cup of it while staring thoughtfully at the wall. Less than an hour later (damn, Germany was not lying about his ability to fix warbirds), he was informed that his plane was up and running and he had been given the go-ahead to fly out.

He didn't see Germany when he went to get into his plane, but the flight back to the American sector was smooth, free of both engine trouble and Soviets.

# # #

Five days and an innumerable amount of milk and coal shipments later, one of America's engines developed a strange humming noise. It didn't appear to affect flight, but it was unnerving. He steered the Skymaster into the hangar, and immediately got out.

The German crews instantly filtered in and started hauling milk like their lives depended on it, which they basically did. They were getting faster and faster at it, though; while the initial months of the lift had been barely enough to keep West Berlin away from starvation, the movement of goods was getting stronger and more efficient.

 _If things keep on going the way that they are going_ , America thought, walking off toward the hangar, _we'll be able to move more goods by airlift than we were by ground_.

The thought was pleasing. Ivan could go fuck himself with the wrong end of his own pipe, the bastard.

He didn't see Germany this time, but had a hunch the other would show up; nations could sense each other, after all, particularly if one nation was on another's soil. He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the briefing room, exchanging brief pleasantries and getting a cup of coffee, downing it with pleasure.

Then he refilled the cup of coffee, and walked back to the hangar. The endless hours in the air had given America a lot of time to think - too much, in his opinion - and he'd made some decisions.

Lord help him, how the world spun on its axis so very fast.

As he suspected, Germany was working on America's plane himself, up on a ladder inside of the engine, tinkering with something. America grabbed another ladder and set it up next to Germany's.

 _I said I didn't need assistance_ , Germany said curtly in German, not even looking down from his work as America climbed up the ladder. _Find another plane to work on; this one is mine._

…it was rather endearing that Germany had staked ownership over America's warbird, really. "I know you don't need help," America said, stepping up into the engine with Germany - the other appeared so surprised that he almost fell off the ladder and had to brace himself against the engine's chassis. They were half-hidden from the rest of the hangar, with their upper bodies inside the giant engine. It smelled like oil and grease; Germany's face was barely visible with the scant light that filtered in the engine.

"I'm almost finished," Germany managed, still looking somewhat surprised at America's sudden appearance. "You… you managed to get a bird caught in the engine, that's all."

By the tone of Germany's voice, he was apparently under the impression that America was going to come yell at him for taking too long. Sigh. America shook his head, and held out the cup of coffee. The pleasant aroma started to overtake the thick scent of grease.

"There _is_ coffee in the briefing room," America informed him. "I brought you some." After a moment, America managed a smile. He was surprised that it was real, and didn't take much effort to give the other.

Germany blinked - America was pretty sure that was his impression of 'shocked.' "You're not supposed to be giving that to us," he said immediately. "It's not part of rations and both of us can get in trouble for it."

America sighed. "Germany, we are literally inside of an engine and nobody is going to give two fucks about this. I brought it for you, now be gracious and fucking take it."

Germany's eyes shuttled between America's face and the coffee with what was clearly becoming blatant trepidation. "Why would you bring me coffee?"

America might have thrown it in his face at this point if Germany's genuine confusion weren't so obvious. "Because you're fixing my plane," America replied, still holding the coffee out.

Germany's mouth worked in a swallow, very likely over an abundance of saliva produced by the coffee's intoxicating scent. "I would fix your plane either way," he responded, voice very low.

America sighed and put the coffee down inside of the engine for the moment. "Germany. Yes, you would fix my plane either way. That's not the point."

Germany looked at him with such a blank expression that America was starting to feel sorry for the bastard.

Well, Germany wasn't Japan, America supposed... he wasn't the type to do much reading between the lines. At least you could be blunt with the man and he'd take it well. "It's a gesture of friendship, moron."

"…friendship?" Germany managed, like America had just announced he was a hermaphrodite landshark.

America sighed, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "Yes. Friendship. That relationship where I'm more than your occupier and you're more than my mechanic?" Jesus Christ, this was worse than trying to deal with England, and America thought _that_ guy was repressed as fuck.

As expected, Germany still looked baffled. "Why would you want that?"

Oh, good god. "Okay. I'm going to try and make this as simple as possible," America managed. By the time he was done explaining what 'friendship' was to this fucking piece of rock, the coffee was going to be as cold as a glacier, Christ. "You must know that West Berlin doesn't mean a damn thing to myself or England militarily. If we simply let those bastard Soviets take it over, it wouldn't matter to us a whit. Yes?"

Germany nodded. Okay, at least the man could understand strategy.

"So, why do you think we're _going through all this goddamn trouble to keep it_?"

"Because it would make you look bad if you gave in," Germany responded immediately, clearly back on more comfortable territory with questions rooted in political logic. "Like you were appeasing the USSR."

Figures that Germany would know the word for 'appeasement' in English. America sighed. "Yes. But who would it make us look bad to?"

"Everybody," Germany replied guilelessly with a nod.

America sighed. "Who would it make us look _really bad_ to?"

Germany blinked. "Us," he said, after a slight pause.

America clapped, leveling the other with a deadpan look. "And _why_ would I care if I looked bad to Germans?"

"Because you don't want us to riot?" Germany tried, cocking his head.

America's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Well, no, that's… you don't _want_ to riot, do you?" Okay, that was alarming. America needed one more goddamn thing to worry about like he needed another hole in his head.

Germany held up his hands and shook his head. "Not at all. I was just… having a guess."

Jesus Christ. America sighed. "Idiot. We want you to _like us_."

"To like you," Germany repeated, raising an eyebrow.

America wanted to groan. " _Yes_. Germany, the last war is over, but _now_ we're in a new one: the West vs. the USSR. We're not going to fight it with guns or bombs because we'd blow everybody to pieces at this point. That's not what this is going to be about."

Germany looked at him, his head slightly cocked again, clearly listening. America continued.

"I want… no, I _need_ , I need for you to choose me over Ivan. I know that you already have to a certain extent… not many have fled east, even with the blockade… but right now I'm very well aware I'm the lesser of two evils in most of your minds. That's not going to work. I need you - and I need the rest of the world - to _choose me_. I need you to want New York City, not Moscow. I need you to want to learn English and not Russian. I need you to want Hollywood; I need you to jack off to Clark Gable and Rita Hayworth. I need your women to fall in love with my military men; I need to figure out some way to get my women over here to knock some sense into your men's apparently thick skulls if they're anything like _you_. I need you to _want me_."

By the end of this, Germany was looking incredulous. "You're rather arrogant," he pointed out.

America rolled his eyes. "I'm arrogant, yes. Next thing you'll be telling me England has a stick up his ass, France is a slut, Ivan is a fucking control freak, and you're so obsessed with rules that you won't drink coffee without the go-ahead. That's not the point, though." Here, America picked up the cooling cup of coffee and reached forward, taking one of Germany's oil-stained hands and wrapping it around the mug himself.

"I'm arrogant, but not stupid. Nobody can make you like me. I'm aware I have to give you a reason beyond how inherently awesome I am." He carefully removed his own hand from the mug when he was sure Germany wasn't going to drop it.

Germany looked at him for a long moment. "You can't buy me," he said, voice quiet. "I know I lost; I know why all of this is happening to me. I know how I must act to avoid further pain; I know I have no say." He looked down into the coffee and then back up at America. "But I won't be bought."

"That wasn't what I meant," America replied, voice uncharacteristically low. "I didn't have to bring you coffee; I brought you coffee. I don't have to be doing this airlift; I am doing it anyway. I am not trying to buy you." He took an awkward breath. "I am trying to woo you. Someday you _will_ have a say again and when you do, I want you on my team."

Germany carefully looked at America, evaluating. "Why do you call me 'Germany'?"

…the change in subject was a bit disorienting, but, okay. "Because that's your name," he replied easily.

"No it isn't," Germany responded. "It's West Germany, now."

America snorted. " _You_ are Germany," he responded stubbornly. "The real one. Someday you will be all of Germany again. It may take a while, but Ivan isn't going to last." …America hoped. Seriously hoped.

Germany just looked at him, and then looked down into the coffee for a long moment, as if he were trying to divine answers from its cloudy surface. Finally he lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip. America smiled as Germany's eyelashes literally flickered with pleasure.

"I suppose I shall have to call you 'The Coffee Flier,' now," Germany said, in a tone that clearly was implying a joke America should know about.

America wrinkled his nose. "The… what?"

Germany blinked. "You don't know about 'The Chocolate Flier'?" Germany asked. "Called…" he tipped his head to the side, clearly translating. "Uncle Wiggly Wings?"

America stared at Germany as if he had suddenly started speaking an alien language. "What… who is that?"

Germany's eyes slotted to the side. "I don't want to get him in trouble," he said after a moment, clearly regretting opening his mouth.

America blinked, carefully thinking his next sentence through. "It sounds like you like him," he tried.

"Yes," Germany responded, taking another slow sip of his coffee and pointedly not elaborating.

America sighed. "Germany, I'm not going to get the guy in trouble. What does he do?"

Germany sighed. "…I don't know what his name is. When he comes up to Tempelhof, he… will drop chocolate and sweets to the children, attached to parachutes he makes from handkerchiefs." He looked down into his beverage. "It has been a long time since the children had chocolate. He… wiggles his wings when he comes into Tempelhof, so the children know who he is." His lip ticks up. "I also personally take care of his plane."

America stared at Germany for a long moment, feeling wonder creep into his mind.

That was _fucking brilliant_.

His mouth dropped open. "That is amazing," America murmured, repeating his thoughts aloud before a big grin spread across his face.

Germany looked at the smile, obviously wary of it.

"We'll just have to get more pilots involved with it, then," America said, feeling _giddy_. "That's a _wonderful fucking idea_. We could get schoolchildren in America to help. They'd be thrilled!"

"They would?" Germany asked dumbly, the cup of coffee automatically going to his lips. He was drinking it much faster now that he'd gotten the taste for it, America noticed.

"Why not? It's a great idea; people will love it. It will connect American kids with German ones, and it will make your people happier." Also, though America didn't voice it, it was a _fantastic_ marketing move. The Soviets starve you out. The Americans work out a peaceful way to continue bringing food and _also_ drop chocolate now, in stark contrast to the horrific bombing of scant years earlier.

Fuck you, Ivan.

Germany was still looking hesitant. "I… yes, that… would be nice." Something vulnerable crossed Germany's face for a moment, but it disappeared. He put the coffee cup down. It was empty.

America was still _beaming_. "Great. I should probably head back, now, if the engine is fixed… I'm sure that this will find support."

Germany nodded slowly, his eyes moving to the empty coffee cup. "Thank you for the coffee," he said, in lieu of answering directly.

America picked up the mug. "No problem," he said, giving Germany a thumbs up as he quickly scuttled down the ladder, lost in his thoughts.

This was going to be _great_. He moved his ladder out of the way and waited for Germany to do the same - the other nation had descended a bit slower than America had.

"Goodbye," Germany said when America approached the plane, that strange semi-vulnerable look on his face again.

America smiled and flashed him a peace sign, clambering up into the cockpit and tossing the mug under the copilot's chair. He'd replace it when he came back; it would only be a few short hours, after all.

As he was deep in his thoughts, America didn't notice Germany standing in the hangar, watching his plane until it took off and disappeared into the horizon.

# # #

America had been right about the candy drops. After digging around in the mail for the letters happy German children sent to the base, he was able to figure out that 'Uncle Wiggly Wings' was actually a Lieutenant named Gail Halvorsen. When America approached him, Halvorsen was initially apprehensive, thinking that he was in trouble; America assured him this was far from the case. After running the idea by Major General Tunner and getting hearty approval, it had spread like wildfire.

Operation Little Vittles, it was called. Scores of pilots now dropped tons and tons of chocolate and candies with tiny parachutes crafted by American schoolchildren. The New York Post was calling for Americans to send in their spare handkerchiefs, which were donated in droves. At first schoolchildren donated their own candy, and then confectionary producers started donating.

All around, America thought, it was a motherfucking _great idea._

Despite this, America hadn't seen Germany for a few months. His plane hadn't developed any engine trouble, and most regular maintenance was done in the American sector of Germany. Plus, since the airlift was starting to flow like clockwork at this point, a plane would land at Tempelhof every 90 seconds, leaving America with zero time to fraternize. The German landing crews could unload a plane in five minutes at this point.

One day in March, America had landed with yet another shipment of endless coal, and sighed, slumping in the cockpit, exhausted; the landing crew immediately filtered in.

After a long moment, though, his eyes opened - there it was, that there-but-not-there itch in the back of his head that belied the close presence of another nation. It was obvious who it had to be.

After a moment, America rose from his seat and went to open the cockpit door. Germany, in his oil-stained jumpsuit, nodded to him.

"Hello," America said, weary. "Long time no see."

"Yes," Germany replied, and then cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your next day off from flying is in three days?"

America raised an eyebrow. "You know my schedule?"

"I know there is one day out of every three weeks when you do not land in Berlin," Germany responded. (Of course he would know America's schedule.) "The next one should be in three days."

America chuckled weakly. "Not much gets by you, I see." He shook his head, but then nodded. "Yes, in three days."

Germany cleared his throat. Again. "Would you like to stay in Berlin on your day off?"

America blinked. "You mean, off the base?"

Germany nodded. "You could stay at my apartment. It's… well, not very much, but…" here he trailed off, obviously getting extremely awkward. His eyes darted away.

America stared at him for a moment, before breaking into a wide grin. "Yeah! I can get Halverson to smuggle me in his plane - he'd do it."

Germany nodded. "I will negotiate early leave for that day," he said. "That should not be difficult."

Likely not, since America assumed the other probably hadn't taken a day off from the job here since he'd had it. "I'll get Halverson on his first run into Berlin," America said. "That won't be difficult, either."

At this point, the landing crew had emptied all the coal and closed the cargo hatch. It was time to fly back. Germany nodded. "I will see you then," he said, and closed America's cockpit door.

Smiling, America went back into his chair, and back into the skies.

# # #

Three days later, America sat in a giant pile of coal on his way to Berlin. Even though the seat was less comfortable than America would have liked, at least he wasn't the one piloting this time around. He snoozed among the black lumps, clutching a package of food in his hands. He wasn't sure how much food Germany actually had on hand at his house, but likely not enough to feed America in addition to himself.

After landing, America quickly scuttled out of the plane with a hasty goodbye to Halverson - making sure he had the man's schedule so he could fly out with him the next day - before looking around.

It didn't take long to find Germany; the other nation was leaning against the wall in worn civilian clothing: khakis and a long-sleeved blue shirt. He nodded to America, and then turned.

Technically this was against all regulations, fraternizing with the former-enemy and being in West Berlin without travel approval; however, the thing about most regulations was that they could easily be worked around. In this case, simply looking casual was enough to get both Germany and America out of Tempelhof, no questions asked.

The day was breezy and cool, but sunny; frankly, it was a brilliant day for flying even though America was beyond happy not to be in the air for once. They walked past the children standing outside of Tempelhof's fence, looking to the skies in hopes for a candy bomber to show up. America smiled.

"You were right," Germany said quietly, causing America to turn his face toward him. "It is very popular, the raisin bombers."

"Raisin bombers?" America asked, the smile still playing on his lips.

Germany nodded; the breeze in the air tossed his spare wisps of hair around. "That's what the children call them. _Rosinenbomber_."

"Raisin bombers," America repeated, still smiling. "Oh, and I brought food for dinner."

"You didn't have to do that," Germany said quietly. "I'd been saving up for a while; there is plenty."

America frowned. "…then that means you haven't been eating well for a while; I'm aware that rations haven't been particularly high."

Germany hummed. "Do not worry," he insisted, leading America through a city that smelt of construction; more buildings were still bombed out rather than not, but the rubble had been cleared from the streets and rebuilding was clearly underway. Most of the workers were women.

The reason for that made America… well, his lip ticked. Not that he was sorry for doing what was necessary to win the war, of course, but, well…

Things could only get better, he told himself sternly. Germany led him into an apartment building without a door on the front, and up four flights of stairs before unlocking an apartment.

Inside was a single-room studio that was sparsely furnished but very clean. In one corner there was a kitchenette sporting a two-burner stove, sink, and small counter space with a shelf above it where rations were neatly stacked. A small table with two chairs sat across from the kitchenette, while a bed was pushed against the window. A clothes rack sat at the bottom of the bed. A radio sat against the wall.

"There is a communal toilet down the hall," Germany told him, reaching out to take America's coat from him after America had shed it. "When you need it, I'll show it to you."

Overall it was very modest housing for a nation, but it made sense. Germany probably spent most of his time at the base anyway. There was a lot of sunlight streaming in through the window, though, and something about the whole setup seemed, well, hopeful.

"This is nice," America said, walking over to the counter to put down the bag of food he'd brought.

Germany gave him a wry look, but did not comment further. "What did you bring in the bag?" he asked instead, seating himself on the edge of his bed.

"Oranges," America said, bringing out two of them to set on the counter. "Jerky. Chocolate. Canned chicken. Tomato sauce. Pasta." He put each item on the counter as he named it.

It would have taken a moron to miss the flash of pain that went across Germany's face at the mention of pasta. America wondered when the last time Germany had seen Italy was. It had to have been 1944 at the latest.

America paused, and pulled out the last thing he'd brought - a bottle of Coke.

In fact, when was the last time Germany had seen a _friend_? Yes, England and France could be bitchy at times, but they were still America's friends. Canada was ridiculous, but he was America's brother and America wasn't being forcibly separated from him. Germany had been pinned down in his own country ever since the end of the war, and hadn't seen anybody other than his conquerors.

America didn't even want to think about what Prussia, or "East Germany" was going through at the moment. It probably wasn't pleasant.

He walked over and sat next to Germany on the bed, and wordlessly put the bottle of soda in his hand. Germany looked down at it.

"Thank you," Germany said after a moment. "I can't…"-he gave another watery chuckle-"…I can't remember the last time I had Coca-Cola."

"Ah, well, you should try it," America said, resting his hands on his knees. "See if it's as good as you remember." He offered a small teasing grin, nudging Germany's shoulder with his own.

Germany snorted. "Arrogant," he said quietly, but there was no heat in it. He reached into his pocket and pried the top off easily with one of the keys on his keyring.

America smiled. "Confident," he corrected just as quietly in the sunny Berlin apartment where planes continually whirred overhead.

"Heh," Germany said, shaking his head, bringing the bottle to his mouth and taking a careful sip, clearly trying not to accidentally activate the fizz too much. He swallowed, looked at the bottle, and then looked at America.

"Well?" America asked, still grinning.

Germany rolled his eyes. "Who doesn't like Coca-Cola?" he intoned, and tipped the bottle in America's direction, indicating that he should take it. America shook his head.

"I can have it whenever I want," he protested.

"Friends share luxuries with each other," Germany said flatly, the look on his face daring America to disagree… though his cheeks were slightly red.

Oh.

"…well, it's difficult to argue with that," America said, and he took the bottle for a (far more measured than usual) sip of his own.

They shared the rest of the bottle in silence, sip by slow sip. It took almost a half-hour, which was frankly a record for America's ability to stretch out consumption of Coke. Normally he could kill a bottle in five minutes.

No matter, though. It quickly became apparent that Germany wasn't an extremely talkative person, overall… once the Coke had been finished, he leaned forward and turned on the radio to AFN-Berlin, which filled the room with cheerful American voices and music.

America and Germany sat in companionable silence for a bit, before Germany stood up and went to the kitchenette, carefully looking through America's food supplies before nodding and starting to boil water.

America normally would offer to help, but it wasn't like making pasta was rocket science (or indeed, even mechanics), and it was interesting to watch how Germany reacted to the music on the radio - he didn't hum or dance, but every once in a while his head would unconsciously bob along, and his mouth would form a word every once in a while - he realized after a moment that Germany was practicing his English, particularly with songs that had a repeating refrain.

That night, both ate large plates of spaghetti with canned chicken, Germany cleaning his plate nearly in time with America, which was impressive. After, Germany stood up and went to the sink, pouring a tiny bit of water into the plate to scrub up the leftover tomato sauce and drink it down. After a moment, America stood up to do the same.

Germany gave him a wry look. "You don't have to do that," he said. Obviously, America wasn't in the position of having to conserve every calorie.

America shrugged. "Contrary to popular belief, I _have_ been hungry before," he said. "I do know what it's like."

"Hm," Germany said, setting his plate down in the sink and reaching forward for an orange. America watched as the other gently cut into the skin of the orange with a fingernail before carefully working a thumb under the skin to work it away from the flesh. Once the orange had been stripped, Germany's fingers slowly started to peel long strips of white pith from the fruit.

America did _not_ have this sort of patience for fruit consumption. Generally, once the peel was off the orange, the orange was summarily devoured. But it was interesting to watch Germany's fingers (with oil under the nails) carefully and gently pull long strips of white away and away and away until he was left with a perfect round orange sphere; a jewel with gentle segmented bumps, perfectly bright and soft and delicious.

AFN network started to play "Long Ago (And Far Away)" which was apparently a song that Germany knew, as he mouthed along to some of it while looking down at the orange.

America didn't say anything. It was strange, frankly, to go so long without saying anything, but there was something obviously happening here, and America didn't want to push it.

Finally, Germany turned the orange around in his hand, and used his thumb to carefully pry the orange open, keeping the segments perfectly intact. He peeled one segment away.

America was watching this, and almost jumped back in surprise when Germany lifted the segment not to his own mouth, but to America's.

Stunned, America's eyes shot up to Germany's and he parted his mouth for the fruit. Germany's eyes were inscrutable as he pushed the segment into America's mouth, his thumb gently brushing against the Cupid's bow of America's lips.

America closed his mouth around the segment and sighed as the sweet liquid flowed from the pulp when bit; it was also something of a luxury to not have the occasional burst of bitterness as the segment was free from pith.

After a moment, America slowly reached forward and peeled a segment away from the orange himself; Germany didn't move - it was obvious he had been expecting this.

America fed Germany the orange segment slowly, but his thumb brushed against Germany's bottom lip a little more purposefully. When America removed his hand, Germany's tongue brushed over the skin where America had just touched, slowly savoring his own orange segment.

And just like the Coke, this was probably the most time America had ever spent on eating an orange, slow segment after slow segment; each time the touching became a little more deliberate. Germany would press a slice into America's mouth and rest his thumb perpendicular across America's lips for a moment after America had closed his mouth; America would push his thumb slightly inside the warm wetness of Germany's mouth before retracting it.

The orange had an uneven number of segments; the last one was Germany's to feed America by the order they had been going in. Germany looked down at the orange slice and then looked up at America.

"The bed is yours tonight," he announced abruptly. The radio had switched to _Music in the Air_ , with John Vrotsos' warm baritone giving the intro of "Listen…" as piano played, "…there's music in the air…"

"With the way things are going, I was expecting that we would be sharing it," America said frankly, his first spoken sentence in quite some time.

Germany's lip ticked up. "I don't want to be penetrated," he said after a moment. "I have nothing to complain about how you treated me after the war, but the combined experience of all the Allies…"

Yes, Germany had mentioned Europe's tendency to end wars with physical rape on the losing countries. Fair enough.

"Well, I don't mind bottoming," America said with a shrug. "This isn't a takeover or a war-loss. So long as you aren't planning anything… surprising… you could go ahead and have a turn. I imagine it's been a while."

Germany looked at him for a long moment. "Yes," he said after that pause, and then, to America's mild surprise, he slid the last section of orange into his own mouth.

Not that America was going to begrudge him for it. It had probably been a long time since-

That train of thought was cut when Germany's hands slid into America's hair and tugged him forward, and placed his lips on America's. A moment later, America found his mouth being pried open and a rush of orange juice and flesh was pushed into his mouth.

America's voice vibrated in his own throat as he experienced the, quite literally, sweetest kiss he'd ever had. Sticky orange juice leaked from between their mouths and eventually America had to break to swallow; Germany's face was just as flushed as America's felt.

"I have cold cream," Germany said with a tip of his lip, a reference to the last time.

America laughed. "Stuff of the gods, cold cream is," he said, shaking his head. "Shall I strip, then?" On one hand this seemed so ridiculous, but on the other…

 _Things can only get better_ , America reminded himself as Germany hummed and went to the cupboard, removing a jar.

"Go ahead," Germany said with a nod, looking up with interest. After all, last time, America hadn't removed any of his clothing.

Not that America was particularly modest. Last time was more of a power play. This was something different. He carelessly shucked off his shirt, dungarees, and underwear, tossing them in an unceremonious pile on the floor, and immediately felt Germany's eyes on him. America's body was still hard from the war years, but noticeably a little more padded with fat since his life was a bit less strenuous than it had been. However, he was still muscular, tan, and since he hadn't seen combat in a few years, unblemished.

Germany's eyes settled on him meditatively. "Now I understand why England gets so possessive," he remarked, making America laugh.

"Your turn," America said. "I imagine you're in better shape than the last time I saw it."

"Mm," Germany replied affirmatively, and then went about removing his own clothes - though his, he draped over the kitchen table carefully. He was still a bit too thin, but no longer bruised or beaten; America couldn't count his ribs this time 'round. Some scars were still present across his body, but they had healed.

America hummed appreciatively and stepped forward, one of his hands resting on Germany's bare hip. "You do look better," he said quietly, looking slightly up into Germany's eyes.

"Thank you," Germany said quietly. "I feel better." He leaned forward again, and his lips touched America's.

It was so strange, kissing Germany. The last time they coupled, there had been no kissing whatsoever; it had been too familiar, too intimate for the act they were engaged in. Germany was quite good at it, though: he wasn't demanding like England or sinuous like France, but rather constantly calibrating his mouth to better mesh with America's; he seemed to move to a better position before America knew what it was.

America's hands reached up and rested on Germany's shoulders, before one hand started to slowly move down Germany's front, tracing over his collarbone and clavicle, trailing lower to gently squeeze a nipple, causing the other to gasp quietly in response.

"Hm," Germany said, reaching over to where the jar of cold cream was, scooping up a generous amount with his first two fingers, trailing the wetness deliberately over America's stomach to where the hair started to point a direct path between his legs; Germany reached down and took America's perking cock in his hand, giving a stroke.

America hissed, his hands going to Germany's arms, giving them a slight squeeze; Germany flexed in response, showing off muscles that, while slightly underfed, were as hard as cable ropes. Germany smiled and his thumb teased at America's slit.

"Both of us," America panted, his face flushed. "Both of us in your hand."

Germany hummed, and stepped closer so that their thighs were touching and their breaths intermingled. America gasped quietly, feeling Germany's cockhead level with his own, both cocks pressed together to the tune of Germany's rhythmic hand.

Silence then, other than quiet, reverent panting as both nations came to attention in Germany's hand. After a few moments, America reached forward and took both of Germany's nipples between thumbs and forefingers; Germany hissed between his teeth as America started to work them, right-left right-left right-left-

"Enough," Germany said after a few minutes, and America could feel tell-tale wetness from Germany's cock starting to lube them both. America smirked and immediately let go. His smirk didn't last long, though, when Germany stalled his hand, keeping their cocks pressed together; however, he started to deliberately toy with the ridge under America's cockhead, tweaking it teasingly until America was flushed bright red and wetness of his own covered Germany's hand.

"You would prefer the bed or the wall?" Germany asked, voice gravelly with arousal as he continued to stroke them both.

America groaned. "…either would be fine… but… bed first, perhaps." Things could theoretically get more interesting later.

Germany nodded, before releasing both America and himself. "On the bed then, on your back," he said. "You can put your legs on my shoulders."

Surprisingly intimate, but, well, America wasn't about to complain. He nodded, and went to go lay down on the bed, his head on Germany's pillow. Here, the scent of the other man was strong - a unique combination of fertile fields, wheat, mud, motor oil, and the distant toll of scorched earth. Germany slid on the bed after him in a sitting position, and when America lifted his legs he easily shifted them over his own shoulders.

"Let me know if it hurts," Germany said, reaching forward to start stroking America's cock with talented fingers and wrist; after a few seconds of warm-up, he started patiently working America with a twist-flick of his wrist and a tireless, repetitive rhythm that soon had America gripping Germany's shoulders with his knees enthusiastically, face flushed and head thrown back against the pillow.

The first slick finger entered him when America was about to warn Germany he was going to come. The burn-stretch definitely delayed his orgasm, but it wasn't long before the slippery digit started penetrating him in rhythm to the twist-flick tireless rhythm Germany had built on his cock, and America started to move in time with it shortly.

The overwhelming waves of pleasure had driven America's eyes mostly shut, but whenever he managed to open them, Germany was staring down at him with total intent written all over his features, clearly very focused on his task.

Before Germany put the second finger in, America opened his eyes and they met Germany's lighter blue ones; Germany deliberately turned his head and pressed his lips into the soft flesh of America's white inner thigh. The second finger slid in.

America hissed, but only briefly. With Germany's tireless assault on his cock, it was difficult to focus on the pain for long. America saw a flash of a careful expression on Germany's face; after realizing that America was loosening and not in serious pain, however, the fingers started to scissor.

Pleasure _flashed_ across America's awareness with the potency of a sneak attack; he openly groaned and felt wetness spatter onto his stomach.

"Shh," Germany admonished, a touch of amusement clear in his voice. "Neighbors."

"Oh, God, fuck your neighbors," America moaned, but did try to make an effort to keep the volume down. He was probably not successful.

"I'm more interested in you right now," Germany responded quietly, and those thick fingers scissored once more and sent America blind with pleasure.

The third finger was probably the most painful as he hadn't been stretched that far in quite a while; Germany paused and kept on working at his cock until America felt positively bloated with feeling; sweat beaded on his brow.

"I think you can go ahead," America managed between gritted teeth to try and control his volume.

"You think?" Germany responded blithely, those three fingers tirelessly pumping in and out of him.

"Fuck me, you stupid Kraut," America demanded, voice scratchy and low, needing it _now_.

"As you wish, Ami," Germany replied, and his fingers carefully withdrew from America's body, causing him to wince at the sudden loose emptiness. A wet sound; Germany slicking himself quickly and then-

 _Ah_. America's voice echoed his mental sentiment, tossing his head back and breathing unevenly as Germany penetrated him, causing shockwaves of _pleasurepain_ to reverberate through his body and up his spine like electrical pulses.

When America next managed to hazily open his eyes, Germany was paused above him, his hair starting to fall loose from the gelled-back position it normally was in; Germany was breathing rhythmically and deeply, his eyes pinched shut in concentration.

" _Move_ ," America groaned deeply. "God, _move_ -"

"Quiet," Germany demanded tightly, in such a sharp jolt that America instantly silenced, starting to pant lowly in exertion at being stretched so with no friction.

Eventually, Germany let loose a deep breath. "My apologies," he said lowly, and did start to move, in shallow thrusts obviously intended to help loosen America further.

America groaned and reached forward, wrapping a hand around his own cock to start pumping it; Germany knocked it away with a rather insistent amount of force, replacing it with his own. America let loose a high-pitched noise at the pleasure that arrowed through him; his banished hand reached up blindly and grabbed a rough handful of Germany's hair. Germany did not protest this.

The shallow thrusts slowly gave way to more of a circular motion, rocking America back into the bed and coaxing broken sounds from his throat, over and over and over and over-

Germany apparently was still worried about his neighbors, because the next moment America felt his legs being bent even further as Germany leaned forward and silenced him with his mouth… America let loose a low noise in his throat and let himself be distracted by the wet slide of mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue, the heat of sex and the lingering taste of sweet orange.

It was then that Germany's relentless pistoning managed to _nail_ America's prostate in a dead-on hit, and America felt his cock starting to relentlessly drip fluid, a constant leak beginning to drive America slowly, slowly out of his mind.

He was buoyant on distant clouds of pure pleasure and a wet line of drool down the side of his mouth when another pitch-perfect assault on his prostate caused the world to blaze white and America simply shouted to the heavens as he exploded all over himself, feeling pulses of wetness explode from him so strongly he painted himself from neck to navel.

Somewhere in there, he could _feel_ Germany's body groan and then he was filled with fluid, causing America to _moan_ , pinned with his legs well above his head, immobile as he was loaded to the brim.

Thankfully, Germany didn't take long to pull out and slightly away to release America from the cramped position; however, once America's legs had flopped uselessly back onto the bed, Germany replaced himself atop America's body, obviously quite comfortable with that position. America's eyes were closed: he could feel oil-soaked fingers carefully brushing back the fringe of his hair until he opened them.

Germany was looking down at him. "It was fine, then?"

America smiled. "Yes. Fine." More than fine, actually.

Germany's lip ticked in response, and a plane whirred overhead: the last dying rays of the setting sun silhouetted a C-54 descending into Tempelhof; as it lowered, a burst of tiny parachutes erupted from the back. One of the evening's last candy bombers, as it were, releasing its delicious payload.

Both nations were silent, watching the sweets descend into the city.

"Yes," Germany said, breaking the silence for once. "It's fine."

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES:

BERLIN BLOCKADE: In 1948, the Soviet Union tired of sharing Berlin. According to the original treaty dividing up Germany to be occupied, Berlin would be divided into an eastern (Soviet) half and a western (Western Allies) half, despite the fact that Berlin itself was located deep inside of the Soviet Zone. At the end of WWII, there had been no formal agreement about land access to Berlin; the Allies had simply relied on Soviet goodwill. The Soviets began halting train and truck cargo to West Berlin, particularly after the announcement of the Deutsche Mark as legal currency on 18 June, 1948. On 25 June, the Soviets stopped providing food to non-Soviet sectors of Berlin.

However, though the ground routes had never been negotiated, air routes had been agreed upon; the Allies had three open air corridors to West Berlin that were secured under treaty. On 25 June, the Americans and the British launched "Operation Vittles," or the beginning of the Berlin Airlift. This was the only way for the Western Allies to maintain control over West Berlin without resorting to acts of belligerence against the Soviet Union, which could have caused a war.

THE BERLIN AIRLIFT: In order to prevent starvation in West Berlin without help from the Soviets, the US and the British agreed to supply the city by air. While the first few weeks of the operation were tenuous due to logistical problems, the airlift quickly began to take on traction. C-54s, the plane that America pilots in this, were the most common cargo plane used by Americans in the airlift.

Though it would have been a violation of the treaty for the Soviets to shoot down or otherwise impede the progress of the British/American cargo planes, they would still "buzz" the planes, or fly very closely overhead/underhead to unnerve the pilots. The story about America playing chicken with a Soviet Yak is taken from an RAF pilot's experience with the same.

The airlift ended when the Soviets, realizing that the airlift was a success and constantly getting better by the day, removed the Berlin Blockade on 12 May, 1949. When the airlift was at its height, one plane would land in West Berlin every thirty seconds.

Local German crews repaired British/American planes and also took over unloading planes in order to help the airlift go faster. These crews received extra rations for their work.

The results of the Berlin Airlift were massive: it helped improve relations between the Germans and the Allies, and it also convinced a number of other countries that the Soviet Union was a danger: many European countries ended up joining NATO because of it. It also helped formulate a West German state; lots of politicians were afraid of doing so before due to Soviet opposition.

OPERATION LITTLE VITTLES: Gail Halvorson, a Lieutenant and airlift pilot, decided to use a day off to go record videos in Berlin with his hand-held camera. He ran into children watching the airlift planes land and take off and gave them some candy. As they hadn't had candy in a long time, they were very excited. Halvorson felt badly for the children and said he would come back and drop candy from his plane for them next time. The children asked how they would know him; he said that he would wiggle his wings.

True to his word, the next airlift Halvorson participated in, he dropped his own candy rations (and some of friends) out of the window attached to handkerchief parachutes. The children were delighted and started sending letters and artwork to "Uncle Wiggly Wings," "The Chocolate Flier," and "The Chocolate Uncle." The story of the American plane dropping candy was leaked to the press when a reporter outside of the air base almost got hit in the head with a candy bar.

When Halvorson's superiors found out, he expected to be court marshaled; however, his superiors thought this was a fantastic idea. The project was called "Operation Little Vittles." The story appeared in the US press, and US schoolchildren started donating candy to the cause and making parachutes of their own; many newspapers called upon Americans to donate handkerchiefs for the operation. Eventually, major candy manufactures started donating candy for the cause. By the end of the airlift, over twenty tons of candy had been dropped on Berlin.

Operation Little Vittles was a major PR success. It helped bolster the spirits of West Berliners during the airlift, and also helped improve the overall image of Americans and the allies. Halvorson received the Congressional Gold Medal from the US and the Grand Cross of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany. During the opening march for the 2002 Winter Olympics in Germany, Halvorson carried the German team's national placard into the stadium.

The American forces have used similar "Candy Bomber" tactics in conflicts since. In Iraq, American planes would drop toys, teddy bears, and soccer balls for Iraqi children.

AFN-BERLIN: Short for 'American Forces Network,' this is a still-extant radio publication of the US military. It was very important during the Berlin Blockade since it was one of the few radio stations that wasn't scrambled by the Soviets. It was extremely popular in Germany (and other countries) at the time, one of the most popular broadcasts being "Music in the Air," which came out of Munich.


End file.
